Someday
by Got Tea
Summary: "You're not listening to me, Grace," he growls, eyebrows drawn together ominously. She could lie. Could throw words at him, quickly glance at his sketch and come up with enough of an answer to soothe him and prompt him into continuing, allowing her to continue her observations in peace. Or she could tell the truth. "You're right," she agrees easily. "I'm not."


**Someday**

**...**

Head resting in her hand, elbow propped on the desk, Grace is gazing placidly at Boyd as he talks to her. At her. For the last ten minutes, give or take, he's been holding forth on some obscure theory he's suddenly come up with and that he just _had_ to share with her. So much so that he came crashing back into the squad room at full volume, letting her office door rattle against the wall as he strode in and began talking a mile a minute, his hands gesturing wildly to punctuate his point.

With a sigh, she'd put down her bag and retreated to her desk chair, all thoughts of quietly and unobtrusively escaping for the night fleeing rapidly in the face of his sudden burst of enthusiasm.

At first she listened intently, and even offered her opinion on several occasions.

Now though, her attention has wandered. He's wearing a dark blue shirt that is truly a fabulous colour on him. And it's not just the top button that is unfastened. Whether consciously or not, he's allowed a second button to become loose, allowing just a hint of what lies beneath to peek through. His hair is a tad dishevelled too. Not quite post-mutually-exciting-activity dishevelled, or even just-woken-up dishevelled, but it is intriguing.

There is excitement and fire in his eyes as he talks, and she can tell he thinks he's really on to something. He grabs a piece of paper and a chair, and sits down at the edge of her desk, plucking her pen from between her fingers so he can draw quick lines and shapes, trying to illustrate his point. There is an edge of impatience in him, a need for her to understand and understand quickly. That's intriguing, too.

Sadly for him, though, what he's actually telling her is failing to capture her imagination with quite the same curiosity and interest.

Boyd is still talking, but Grace is now blatantly looking at his left arm, which is taking his weight as he leans forward, pen scratching briskly across the page. The material of his shirt is askew, has pulled tight, and beneath it she can see a stark outline of bicep. It's temptation all right, and out of nowhere she finds an image swamping her of the strength in that arm helping lift her clean off her feet, helping to pin her against the wall in her hallway. Right at the foot of the stairs.

Grace's eyes flicker back to his collar, to that exposed section of smooth, inviting flesh. Suddenly, without warning, he leans back and throws his arms aside, the planes of his chest momentarily visible as his shirt tightens against it before he leans forward again and glowers at her.

"You're not listening to me, Grace," he growls, eyebrows drawn together ominously.

She could lie. Could throw words at him, quickly glance at his sketch and come up with enough of an answer to soothe him and prompt him into continuing, allowing her to continue her observations in peace.

Or she could tell the truth.

"You're right," she agrees easily. "I'm not."

"Well thanks a lot," he growls, getting to his feet to start pacing. "I'm so glad I know where I stand with you."

Grace shrugs. "I was preoccupied. Imagining you naked."

Mid-pace, Boyd freezes. Turns to stare at her, incredulous.

Manipulating him with words is just far too much fun. She supposes she really shouldn't, but then life would be rather dull. And she's never liked boring.

"_You have an unfortunate talent for finding the wild ones, and the stupidity and impulse to chase them!"_ It's all too easy to ignore that dirty scowl and the sudden shriek of her late mother that manifests inside her head. She's had a lifetime of practice, after all.

"What?" She's all innocence, naturally.

"Time and place, Grace."

Grace shrugs, leans back into her desk chair. Doesn't conceal the fact that her gaze is starting to wander from his face. "It's late evening, Peter, too late to still be working, and besides, it's been a while since you came home with me. Sometimes a woman just needs to let her imagination run wild."

"We're investigating a murder here, in case you'd forgotten..."

He's wavering, she can tell. Though why it's taking so much effort, she really can't fathom. "And he's been dead for twenty two years. You and I, on the other hand, are very much alive."

"Grace..."

He's never turned her down before. Not once. They might not be full time lovers yet, but when they do collide in the intimate space that only they share, there is an unspoken acknowledgment that someday they will be. Hopefully.

"Peter, I'm going home. I want dinner and a bath, and then my bed. Preferably with you in it, but if you want to stay here and theorise, be my guest."

Old wounds, that's her supposition. The reason they haven't just agreed to commit, to take permanent advantage of the spectacular chemistry that exists between them.

"Why do you always have to make my life so difficult?" It's a grumble, but a light-hearted one. He's already reaching for her coat, handing it to her.

"Hormones are a fickle thing, Peter. And tonight mine are saying they want you. Whether or not you choose to indulge me is up to you, but given past experience, I wouldn't have thought it a difficult decision."

Deep dark eyes gaze down at her as she takes her coat, slips into it. "Loving you has never been a difficult decision," he admits, honest as always. "I just..."

As much to rescue him as herself, Grace rests a gentle hand in his arm. "It's okay. Don't say it."

There's a trace of sadness in his eyes. Worry, too. "It's not enough though, is it?"

She could shrug, brush the moment off. Instead she chooses to be honest back to him. "No. It's not. But let's just take what we have for now, eh? The future will sort itself out in its own time."

Scepticism burrows into his brow. "You really believe that?"

"I hope it. And in the meantime I take my fun where I can. Now are you... coming... home with me or not? There's a shepherd's pie ready to go in the oven, and an unopened bottle of red waiting."

"Ah, well," grins Boyd, his eyes dancing despite the lingering gravity, "who am I to resist the offer of shepherd's pie, a hot bath and a place in a beautiful woman's bed?"

Grace laughs and shoves him toward his office where his own coat is hanging. They will have their fun, and once again she will see the love in his eyes in the sleepy, sated aftermath. And she will hold her tongue in that moment. Won't whisper the dangerous words that would tear at both of them. And tomorrow they will return to work as though everything is the same. Normal.

The future isn't the present yet, but she lives in hope that it will be. Someday.


End file.
